Momma, I'm Coming Home

[Manhattan White]

~*~APW fans cheer as two wrestlers trying to join the organization limp to the backstage area during a House Show. The bassline to "Face to the Floor" hits and a wall of glass lights up with two tiny headlights. The arena goes dark as the guitar cuts in and the glass smashes to pieces as Irish Pete, in a Shriner's car, peels out onto the stage area, revealing Manhattan White standing where the glass used to be. The crowd cheers as strobes ignite the arena, flooding the APW fans with light. A smile slides across Manhattan's face as he starts his slow walk down the aisle. Irish Pete drives past him down the aisle and drives laps around the ring as Manhattan reaches the ring and climbs up the side and slips through the ropes. Irish Pete climbs up the steps into the ring as Manhattan stands on the middle turnbuckle, looking out into the crowd. Irish Pete begins playing air-guitar on his trusty nine iron in the center of the ring as Manhattan White climbs on the other corners' turnbuckles so he's looked out over all of the arena. The music settles and the house lights come up as Manhattan White walks to the center of the ring, microphone in hand.~*~

MW: How are we doing tonight?

~*~Manhattan points the microphone at the crowd as they all cheer. He smiles and nods while Irish Pete raises his arms, goading the fans to cheer louder.~*~

MW: It’s just a few more nights before the big Pay Per View event and I figured I’d come out here and share a few words with you before this next match gets started, is that all right with you?

~*~The fans cheer louder. Irish Pete does a backflip as if the cheers blew him off his feet.~*~

MW: Careful, Pete, these guys are rowdy tonight.

~*~Irish Pete wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and nods in agreement.~*~

MW: Sunday marks the two month anniversary of my arrival in APW. It marks my two month anniversary into professional wrestling, and I’m booked in an Xtreme Elimination Chamber match for the APW World Heavyweight Title. Let that sink in a moment. I’ve been here for two months. I’ve been doing this job for two months, and I’m already standing here with the most prestigious title shot this business has to offer. This isn’t some comeback, Tommy. This isn’t me returning to a business I was a part of in the past, trying to rekindle some sort of career that should have ended before. This is Manhattan White, fresh off of the streets, walking around with that new car smell, already surpassing the rest of the APW roster in two very short months, doing battle with five other individuals to become top dog. That isn’t a comeback, Tommy. What you’re trying to do, ever-so terribly, is a comeback. You’ve been doing this job. You’ve been a wrestler for years. This whole time you’ve been struggling with the new guy to the business. You’ve said it yourself, that I’ve been “pesterin’ you,” that I’ve “slowed you down.” How does that make you feel, buddy?

How’s does that make your oh so great return to the ring look? You can’t even completely get past a guy without any job experience whatsoever. You’re struggling to beat a man that, anywhere else, would still be considered a trainee. I’d still be following someone around, just like you, trying to learn my way around the place, trying to figure out how to make it at this job. But instead, you can’t beat me. You can’t seem to shake me. Because here I am, once again, facing you as an equal, on level ground, with an even shot at a title. The way I see it Tommy, that makes you look pretty shameful. Someone with the background and experience that you claim to tout, with the ability that you profess to have in your arsenal, and I’m still able to “pester you?” There’s a saying Tommy, about ex-girlfriends, that they’re ex’s for a reason, that they should probably stay ex’s. From where I stand, maybe this comeback of yours wasn’t such a good idea after all. The way I see it, maybe you should have stayed gone, maybe you should have stayed broken up with professional wrestling. Because you obviously can’t get this comeback of yours right against a new guy.

Speaking of guys that can’t seem to get shit right, Jason Kash has been doing a lot of talking. A lot. A lot of talking. A, fucking, lot of talking. Jason, let me explain to you how an analogy works. You take two similar things, and you discuss one of those similar things to talk about the other. You compared Mike Morrison to The Riddler, saying that Mike was “almost as cool as The Joker” but that he still lacks in areas that most people can’t quite put their finger on. Jason, put the joint down a minute and listen carefully. None of that makes any sense at all. If anyone in that analogy is “almost as cool as The Joker,” it’d be The Riddler, and not Mike Morrison. Now, perhaps it was just a simple mistake in what you were talking about, that you’re brain was so shocked that you we’re attempting to make a point, that it shut down completely before you could get around to a complete, lucid idea. But then you went on to say, “that he still lacks in areas that most people can’t quite put their finger on.” Who does? The Riddler? Mike Morrison? When has The Riddler ever lacked in areas that people couldn’t quite put their finger on? He’s a mastermind criminal, hellbent on toying with authority such that he provides clues and essentially the blueprints to his schemes. That’s hardcore, Jason. He thinks so little of police and Batman, that he basically shows them how and when and where and why he does what he does, because otherwise, he thinks they couldn’t figure it out for themselves. His disdain is so strong, that he tells them right-out, “Cops, come get me, here I am, because you’re too dumb to do this alone.”

Jason, I hope you’re still listening. I hope I haven’t talked so long that the cherry hasn’t gone out, because we all know that relighting that shit makes it taste gross, so I’ll try and keep this short. One Night In Hell is Sunday Night in the Tokyo Dome, in Tokyo Japan. You and I are in the Elimination Chamber together. I will be your opponent in what is called, a wrestling match. What will happen is, we’ll enter the ring together, there’s going to be some weapons in there, and some other guys, and something known as a woman. We’ll make sure to point her out in case you don’t know what one looks like, yet. Now, when we’re all in the ring together, a bell is going to ring and that’s when the match begins. All six of us are then going to beat each other up as much as possible to help determine a winner for the Heavyweight Title. When a winner is determined, a bell will ring again and that’s when it is all over, and then that winner will be dubbed the APW Heavyweight Champion. There’s the how, the when, the where, and the why, now, how was that for an analogy?

~*~The crowd laughs as Manhattan White chuckles as he walks toward the ropes so he can look directly into the cameras filming the House Show for APW’s straight to DVD collection.~*~

MW: Mike! Mike Morrison! Hi! Hello!

~*~Manhattan White waves into the camera and then points down to the ground.~*~

MW: Come back to Earth Mike, we miss you, boss. You keep yammering on and on about how I dress like Huggy Bear.

~*~Manhattan looks down at the jeans and the t-shirt that he’s wearing before looking back into the camera.~*~

MW: I can only assume that you’re referring to the outfit I was wearing in the shoot that I filmed for the last Asylum, so I’ll speak slow so I can explain something to you, as you’re clearly a little mental. Hey, check that out, maybe Jason had a point after all.

~*~Manhattan looks back at Irish Pete. They wait a beat before they shake their heads “No” and then Manhattan looks back into the camera.~*~

MW: Shoots are bits of film, they’re short talking points that are used by APW to help promote upcoming matches. The shoot you keep blabbering about was a bit I was doing, dressing up like legendary professional wrestlers, as I was trying to figure out this whole business, how this whole smack-talking thing works. Remember? I’m new to all of this. But apparently, for you guys that have been doing this wrestling thing for a while, I apparently have to spell out how your job works for you. So, the Huggy Bear thing? That was me, dressing up like guys that used to do this job before all of us, and they were way better at this business than your goofy-self. Now, Mike, listen, I should probably tell you something so you don’t freak out, later. After One Night in Hell, if you’re in the physical condition to do so, at the end of this month, if you make it back to the States, there’s a day where all of the children where costumes and walk around collecting candy. This is completely normal and it happens once a year on the last day of October. So, again, if you’re in the condition to return to the States by then, I don’t want you to think that the entire country has turned into an under-aged brothel where our children are walking around as pimps. I wouldn’t want you to get arrested for breaking out the Ultra-violence on the unsuspecting children of America, because you were just unaware of how things work.

Sally Talfourd…

~*~The men in the crowd cheer at the female wrestler’s name and Manhattan White rolls his eyes. Irish Pete uses his hands to outline the figure of a woman. Manhattan White looks back and see’s Irish Pete then air-groping the curves of the imaginary Talfourd. Irish Pete makes eye contact with Manhattan White and quickly stands at attention before White turns his attention back to the crowd.~*~

MW: Sally, in preparation for our six man tag team match back at the last Asylum you said that, “a smart wrestler takes into account their limitations.” Finally! Finally, an opponent that knows what they’re talking about. Finally, you present me with an –

~*~Manhattan White looks back at Irish Pete, and Pete looks back with an inquisitive look. Manhattan nods his head back toward the stage area and Irish Pete gets the hint, hopping out of the ring, climbing into his Shriner’s car, and driving to the backstage area. Manhattan turns back to the camera and begins again.~*~

MW: -- Sally, you present me with an opponent that’s able to exercise some thought and intelligence. Thank you! In the following shoot you presented us with the Rights to being a champion. Hell, it was the Rights to being a halfway talented wrestler. No, a halfway successful human being. Now, listen, in the shoots for the Asylum match, I did the wrong thing. I’ll admit it. I did the whole – “Women belong in the kitchen and not in the wrestling ring” – thing. Yea, I did that. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments. It wasn’t something I’d call home about and brag to my mother. So, I’m not going to stand out here tonight and try to insult you with some ridiculous point of view that I don’t even believe in. What I do know, something that you think I don’t know, is what this Elimination Chamber actually is. I’ve watched footage of similar matches. I’ve read the constructs of the Chamber, I’ve read the contract, and I think I’ve got a pretty good grasp on what to expect.

~*~Irish Pete drives back out onto the stage area and down the aisle with a cart hooked onto the back of his Shriner’s car. In the cart is a trash can full of weapons that Manhattan White climbs out of the ring and hoists into the ring as soon as Irish Pete stops driving. Manhattan gets back into the ring and motions toward the can.~*~

MW: I come from Camden, New Jersey, Sally. This can full of, hell, even the can itself, are what I call Implements of Destruction. They’re tools of the trade in the streets of Camden, for survival. For years, Camden has been deemed The Most Dangerous City in America. That’s where I grew up Sally. That’s where I call home. When I do call home, and I do talk to my mother, and I tell her that I’ve sent you packing after One Night in Hell, I’ll be calling Camden. My mother might even be sharpening, or cleaning one of these handy little joys. So, when I’m standing in front of five other people, and we’re all brandishing one of these badass little weapons, don’t think for one second that I don’t know what I’m in for. Because when that bell rings to start the match? I’ll be right at home.

Which leaves me with the Champion, the Lord of the Asylum, Rico Casteel.

~*~Manhattan holds a finger to his lips and hushes the crowd.~*~

MW: Do you hear that? That’s the sound of time ticking, Rico. That’s the sound of five other people gunning for the title that you carry. You can talk all about how insignificant I am. You can sound like the rest of these people, Knoxville, Morrison, Kash, and Talfourd, and talk about how I’m a nobody, a no-named undeserving challenger that hasn’t earned a right to be in the same arena as you. But the fact of the matter is, I am. I will be in that ring on Sunday night, armed to the teeth, and feeling right at home. So, underestimate me. Climb into that ring as unprepared as you want. But when we’re all standing toe to toe and that bell rings, all of the talking -- or NOT talking in your case, Champ – is over. Who’s intelligent, who can make a case for themselves, who can string an analogy together, or can stroke a Buddha statue better, none of that matters. All that does matter, is that when the match is over, and you’re on your back looking at the lights of the arena, this nobody, this underserving new guy, this Huggy Bear look-alike is the new Heavyweight Champion and that the suffering of the APW fans – yes, Sally -- that will be the end of suffering.

~*~Manhattan White climbs out of the ring and walks up the aisle as the fans chant his name.~*~